All That Remains
by Finnibuns
Summary: After losing that which is most important to her, Astrid Hawke seems determined to ruin herself with drink. Her friends cannot comfort her, save for one. Spoilers and smut.


All That Remains

**Yeah... I just really like Fenris. And there's some Varric goodness thrown in there, too. The barmaid character is for my very best friend. She doesn't play Dragon Age, but she likes to be written about. So I did. c: I own nothing but four rats and a boyfriend. **

The Hanged Man was unusually quiet. The patrons, usually full of vigor and boisterous laughter, were still. There was no familiar clanging of mugs and singing of songs. The entire pub seemed to have been frozen for a moment in time. The only sounds came from the twin fireplaces, where the flames crackled merrily; a stark contrast to the veritable chill that had settled in the room and in the bellies of all standing there.

Astrid Hawke's topaz eyes flitted about the room. Her dark, thick eyebrows knitted together. All eyes were on her. Someone coughed. No one moved. For what seemed like an eternity, the room stood still.

And then Astrid was moving, striding resolutely past all the accusing glares and sympathetic faces. Varric reached out to grab her wrist, but she wrenched herself free of his grasp without so much as a backward glance. The sound of her boots rang in her ears as she mounted the stairs and disappeared into Varric's suite. The door clicked loudly behind her.

Everyone, of course, had heard what had happened to Astrid's mother in the sewers. Only a few of Astrid's entourage had been there to witness Quentin's atrocities, but the story got out regardless. That had been a week ago, and she and her group had only just returned from her funeral. There was a new plot in Kirkwall's graveyard, and Sebastian had placed Leandra Hawke's name on the remembrance list. Her friends had done much to comfort her, but the whisperings that it was her fault were too much. She cloistered herself away in Varric's suite, and would allow only the barmaid in with fresh drinks.

With a weary sigh, Varric slumped into a chair beside their favorite table near the fireplace in the corner. The others came and joined him. Aveline and Isabela sat down across from him. The two were being uncharacteristically amicable towards one another; perhaps an armistice in the face of this tragedy. Merrill dropped into a chair beside Varric, tears streaming unabashedly from her eyes. The dwarf reached out and touched her hand, and she glanced at him with a small, watery smile. Anders had his hand on the fireplace mantle, staring determinedly into the flames. He swallowed convulsively, and his expression grew sour. Sebastian jumped up and grabbed the mage's elbow, escorting him somewhere where he could vomit in peace.

They sat in silence for a long time, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Sebastian and Anders returned, and the latter looked less pale and clammy. He lowered himself into a chair beside Merrill. Sebastian sat beside Aveline, eyebrows furrowed over his stark blue eyes. It was only after they all had mugs of warm ale in their hands that Varric noticed someone was missing.

"Hey, where is that broody elf?" he muttered, startling them all out of their reverie. Merrill jerked so sharply at his words that her mostly full mug of ale slopped down her front. She cursed quietly in Elvish and began dabbing at herself half-heartedly with her scarf.

Isabela moved around the table to help clean up Merrill. "I don't know," she said quietly. "He hasn't been around recently. Ever since he and Hawke…. You know. She doesn't bring him on outings anymore."

Varric's heavy blonde eyebrows knitted together. It wasn't like Fenris to just disappear; where could he have gotten to? He lifted his mug to his lips once more, but before the ale could enter his mouth, the door opened and there was Fenris. The elf was drenched to the core; it had begun raining, the downpour lashing the windows of the pub. He shook his head fiercely for a moment and water droplets flew off him. Varric was reminded strongly of Astrid's mabari, Arcturus, after she had given him a bath once.

The elf approached them, running a gauntleted hand through his white hair and showering Anders with icy water. He flinched and shot a murderous look at Fenris. The elf simply smiled. Obviously wherever he had been, he had heard nothing of Leandra's fate.

"My, you're all a sour bunch tonight. And you call me brooding," he said, nudging Varric's shoulder. Varric simply frowned. And a small unsettling feeling dropped into Fenris' stomach. It clenched suddenly when he spied Merrill, tears now trickling down her face anew.

"What's happened? Where's Hawke? Is she hurt?" His insides had turned to ice at the thought. If anything had happened to her… His jade-colored eyes widened and they flitted instantly to Anders. "_You_," he snarled, pointing a sharp finger at the mage and moving around the table. "You were supposed to protect her!" he spat, and Anders shot up out of his chair, venom and hatred etched into his features.

"Me?" roared Anders, his hand snatching up the staff that was leaning against the wall behind him. "Where the hell have _YOU_ been? Do you even _KNOW_ what's happened?"

"IF I MIGHT INTERJECT," snapped Varric, as Aveline surged forward to stop the two men from ripping into each other. She situated herself between them, facing Anders with a menacing glare on her face, though Anders could clearly see her own tear tracks running down her freckled face, betraying the steely exterior she wore. Isabela calmly seized Anders' staff out of his hands and moved it out of reach.

Fenris' eyes did not leave Anders' face even after the two men settled into chairs on opposite sides of the table. His glower only faded when Varric began to tell him what had happened. Anders was the first to turn away from their staring contest. His gaze broke from Fenris as Varric's tale of Leandra and Quentin came to a close. He covered his face with his hands as silence fell around the table once more.

Fenris was staring at Varric, his expression bewildered, angry, and concerned all in one. His heart was like ice, and his lungs struggled to draw breath. It was minutes before his painfully swollen throat allowed him to speak.

"Where… where is she?" he asked, his voice quiet and hoarse. Varric gestured wordlessly to his suite up the stairs.

He paid no heed to the group's warnings as he got to his feet and left the table. He bounded up the stairs two at a time and approached the heavy wooden door to Varric's palatial suite. His heart had thawed itself, and was now thudding painfully loud in his ears. He swallowed again, as if trying to place the pounding organ back into his chest where it belonged.

_Surely the door would be locked_, he thought. Yet when he pressed a palm to the door and pushed, it opened with a soft creak. He steeled himself for whatever she might throw at him, but no blow came. He opened his eyes and took a step into the room, allowing the door to creak shut behind him.

There was a huddled mass of blankets lying on Varric's impressive bed. Strewn about on the floor were various articles of Hawke's clothing. Her boots were kicked under the table, her Grey Warden armor (a gift from her sister) was thrown about in an obvious path from the door to the bed. Her bow and quiver full of arrows lay forgotten by the door. Fenris frowned and bent to collect her things, placing them in a tidy-ish pile on the table.

She must have heard noise, because the blanket lump twitched and a voice, thick with drink and tears, said. "Go the bloody hell away, Varric. You'll get your suite back when I pass out." Fenris eyed the 7 empty mugs on the table, and as he strode closer, he saw three more on the bedside table. One of which was still full. His frown deepened to a glower, and he strode towards the bed. Damn that barmaid.

His gauntleted hands rested upon the footboard of the bed. The sharpened tips dug furrows into the wood. It was a moment before he could speak. He cleared his throat. "Astrid?" he said, unable to shake the tiny bit of nervousness that crept into his tone.

The blanket mass, which had been moving continuously since he had entered, stilled suddenly at his words. But Astrid's face still did not emerge.

"Fenris?" came the quiet, muffled reply. There was surprise there, as well as hints of a quiet ache that Fenris just couldn't put his finger on. The sound of her voice saying his name made his heart flutter with fear and concern and hope. He swallowed.

"Yes, it's me," he muttered, stepping around the footboard and sitting on the mattress beside her. He reached out and gently tugged the blanket away. He found her face after a few moments, surprised that she did not fight to keep it hidden away from him. Her eyes were red from the drink and from her shed tears. Her normally pale complexion was blotchy and flushed, and wisps of hair had fallen out of her usually tidy tail. She sniffled as she stared at him, the flickering candlelight throwing her soft features into a sharp contrast, making her look instantly older and weary.

Fenris felt his stomach clutch painfully at the sight of her. Even this disheveled and unhappy, she was still gorgeous, almost otherworldly in her beauty. She turned her face away from him, embarrassed to be seen in her current state. Her calloused fingers toyed nervously with the ends of her loose ponytail.

"I… am sorry about what happened to your mother, Hawke." He had gone back to the indifferent family name again, but she hadn't forgotten that he had called her Astrid. "I cannot imagine what it must feel like to lose a member of your family. Anything I could say would be… insufficient."

She gave a soft hiccup, and rocked side to side for a moment, blearily staring down at the full mug of ale on her table. Fenris watched her carefully; he'd have to stop her if she tried to reach for it. The silence stretched on for a long minute.

"It's… my fault she's gone," she said, her voice strained with emotion. Hot tears streamed from her eyes, blurring her vision. Her whole body twitched as she fought to contain her sobs. Fenris felt he might rip out his own heart, it ached for her so. He would have done anything in that moment to keep her from ever feeling an ounce more of sadness. At her command, he would cheerfully have burned Kirkwall to the ground, simply to make her happy. He felt powerless; for all his strength, he could not defend against that which was not physical.

His hand reached out to cup her cheek, to brush away her tears, to crush her into his embrace where he could protect her from everything that wanted to see her harmed. But she recoiled at the touch of his cold gauntlets, and tightened herself into a protective ball underneath the blankets.

A frustrated growl rumbled from his throat. Fenris ripped his gauntlets from his hands and threw them away carelessly. They clattered to the floor. His hands, large and square and still slightly damp from the rain, cupped her face and forced it towards his own. With a jolt, she realized that his own eyes were bright with unshed tears. His calloused thumb brushed gently across her cheek, wiping away her tears with a tenderness she did not think Fenris could manage. She was acutely aware that they were suddenly very close to one another, their faces mere inches apart.

And then his lips were everywhere at once. His hands moved lightning-quick from her face, and they were suddenly resting on her waist, drawing her closer as he rained hot, frantic kisses on her cheeks, her forehead, her neck, her exposed cleavage and collarbone… It wasn't long before she was clinging to him, her arms coiled tightly around his neck, unable to let go for fear of floating away. Her amber eyes closed blissfully as his mouth peppered searing brands of his affection down to her collarbone. When he lifted his head, their lips met in a fierce, breathtaking kiss.

Astrid inhaled sharply through her nose and her hands found his still-sodden mass of hair. He gave a grunt of surprise against her mouth as she leaned backwards, pulling him down on top of her. His left forearm braced against Varric's mattress to keep himself from crushing her as his right hand made short work of the tangle of blankets surrounding her. Their lips met again in another searing kiss, her devious little teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. Without hesitation, her unspoken command was obeyed, and his lips parted, granting her questing tongue entrance. The blankets were around her hips now, exposing her rough breastband and then… She shuddered as his cool fingers ghosted over the smooth expanse of alabaster skin that was her stomach. Her mewl of pleasure was met with a great rumble of satisfaction from Fenris, who lowered his mouth to where her neck melted into her shoulder. She gasped and writhed a little beneath him as he nipped at the skin there.

Impatiently, Astrid kicked the remaining blankets off her calves, shivering as a rush of cool air raised gooseflesh across her body. Fenris' hungry gaze drank in the sight of her, remembering the night they had shared together previously. That had been rushed, desperate. He'd have to take his time and enjoy it now. He brought his tattooed fingers over the swell of her hip, following the contour of her body and down her leg, which was bent at his side. He reveled in the silky smoothness of her skin, the intoxicating aroma of her hair. His gaze fell upon her face, only for a thrill of fear to rush through him. There was doubt in her eyes.

She hated feeling unsure of herself. In battle, she was fearless. Her bow in her hands was reassuring, something that could be counted on. Her father had trained her and Carver for years in the art of war, and she knew battlefields well. They were black and white, death and victory. Here was all grey. She didn't do well with grey. When she looked away from him and worried at her lower lip, his hand moved to cup her cheek. She hiccupped softly as gentle pressure of his hand turned her face towards his. Fenris' eyes were tender, yet darkened with desire. He pressed his mouth to hers, settling his lanky body atop hers, cradled between her thighs.

Their kiss was languid; they slowly explored one another's mouths, eliciting quiet noises of arousal from Astrid as Fenris' lean arms circled her waist, pressing their hips together and supporting her weight underneath him. His kiss was like fire inside her, invigorating her and evaporating all doubt. Her confidence bubbled as she writhed beneath him, spurred on in part by his wordless encouragement, and in part by the ale that still buzzed at the back of her skull.

Astrid's fingers traveled down his chest, fumbling with the fastenings on the metal breastplate he wore over his tunic. When he was free of it, she removed it and heaved it to the floor. He winced as it landed on the floorboards with a loud crack. But the feeling of her fingers underneath his tunic snapped him back to more important matters. Her fingertips caressed his abdomen, moving upwards towards his chest. She gave the material a quick yank, bringing it up over his head and off his torso. He smirked as she bit her lower lip, fingertips delicately tracing over the whorls and curves of the lyrium branded into his flesh, eyes half-lidded and dark with desire.

He jerked involuntarily at her touch, inhaling sharply through his teeth with a hiss. He'd have to get used to that; it was so very different than the touch he was accustomed to. Her eyelids flew open and she yanked her hand away from him as if he had burned her. Before he could stop her, she was mumbling apologies, and wriggling as if she wanted to get out from underneath him. His hands latched around her wrists, vice-like and yet gentle, keeping her firmly in place until she relaxed once more.

He dipped his head to nuzzle against her throat, a deep rumbling growl of satisfaction erupting from his chest as her hands tentatively resumed caressing his chest and stomach. His hands moved her wrists above her head, pinning them there beneath one firm palm, as his hands moved down her irresistible body. Their bodies pressed against one another; she could feel the hard prod of his arousal against her thigh. He growled again as her hands moved down to caress him through the material of his leggings. He hissed against her throat, his hips bucking slightly against her touch. He nipped at her throat, finally freeing her wrists from his grasp to hook his thumbs in the waist band of her smallclothes, desperate to get at more of her flesh.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he ripped the small triangle of cloth away from her hips, a devilish smirk tugging at his lips. She gasped as his rough fingers stroked the soft curls at the apex between her thighs, and trembled beneath his touch. When he inserted a finger, and then another, a hoarse cry ripped from her lips and she writhed with unadulterated pleasure.

* * *

Out at the bar area, the others were beginning to get merrier the more drink they downed. Sebastian, uncharacteristically smashed out of his gourd, was reciting dirty limericks with Isabela, whilst Merrill, red-faced and giggly, watched on, swinging her mug from side to side and slopping ale across the table. Aveline and Varric were both chatting together quietly, an even 10 mugs between them. Anders was sitting at the middle of the table, his forehead resting on the rough wood surface, his original mug still clutched in his hand. The elven serving girl came over to their table, her arms heavily laden with dirty plates and mugs. She was rather curvy, for an elf, with large hazel eyes and a long mess of deep brown curls that framed her freckled face. She had heavy set eyebrows, knitted together tightly in concentration.

"Another, messere?" she asked Varric, who turned away from Aveline to face her. A suave smile curved his lips, his cheeks flushed with drink. He looked like a jolly man; you'd never have known that death was in his thoughts.

"Only if you're serving them, Nionwen." He flashed a charming wink, and the elf flushed a deep crimson, all the way to her pointed ears. She swept away with the empty mugs, still blushing furiously. Varric chuckled as she stepped around him, watching her as he lifted his mug to his lips and drank deeply.

She returned moments later, holding a tray with more drinks for the group. Sebastian and Isabela gave a cheer as she approached, lauding her talents as a barmaid. She glowered at Varric, but then he flashed her is trademark smirk, and her expression softened. She rolled her eyes as he wiggled his eyebrows at her, and she set their drinks down. Anders lifted his head, blinking at the fresh mug before him.

"Anything else, serah?" she asked Varric, glancing around as Isabela and Sebastian fell about one another, giggling madly. Aveline muttered something against the lip of her mug. She took a long swig of the ale and got to her feet. Bidding them all goodbyes, she left the tavern. Varric gestured for Nionwen to join them at the table, giving her another of his irresistible smiles. She glanced at the bartender, who was deep in conversation with a patron. She gave a quiet sigh and plopped down into a chair beside Varric. He offered her Anders' new mug of ale. She took it wordlessly and downed it in one gulp. Varric's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"My kind of girl," he murmured, grinning at her. She gave him a sheepish smile and wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her rough cotton tunic

* * *

Back in Varric's room, Astrid was becoming increasingly frustrated with Fenris' belt buckle. A deep chuckle reverberated from his chest as he buried his face into her shoulder. She was momentarily distracted by the sensation of his wondrous mouth against her neck, nipping gently at her soft skin. She wriggled beneath him, working once more on his belt buckle.

"How do you get this thing on every day?" she grumbled. Fenris gave another chuckle, his hands moving to encircle hers and guide her in removing the offending article of clothing.

"I am not usually falling down drunk when I do it," he replied, and yanked the belt free of its loops once it was unbuckled. His mouth claimed hers once more in a scorching kiss, as her fingers tugged incessantly on his leggings. He groaned against her mouth as she freed his aching member from the constricting material. He looked down at her, a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. She was, after all, still remarkably intoxicated.

Their gaze met for a moment, and he felt reassured by the feel of her arm curling slowly around his neck, her fingers clutching at his white hair, the way she bit her lip and smiled. Her eyes flicked down to their hips, and her free arm moved downward to gently stroke his hardened arousal through his smallclothes. He gave a grunt, his eyes closing tightly as he resisted the urge to simply force himself upon her at that very moment.

Since he had enjoyed teasing her so much, she was going to enjoy returning the favor. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Fenris' face, which was half buried in her shoulder. His elbow rested on the mattress, but she could see that his arm was shaking slightly. Her hands moved slowly towards the waistband of his smallclothes, her fingers nimbly pulling the fabric away from his taut stomach so that her hands could be granted access. At the first hesitant brush of her fingers against his aching erection, the tenuous grip on his urges snapped.

He gave a hoarse growl, possessive and hungry, and there was a visible shift in his demeanor. He wasn't going to stand for anymore teasing, and she knew it. His hand moved to her breastband, and, like her smallclothes, they were ripped away with a single flick of the wrist. Her breath came with a startled hiss as his rough hand found the hardened peak of her breast, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. She moaned and wriggled like a worm on a hook, her head falling back and her eyes sliding closed in ecstasy. His mouth descended upon the other nipple, his tongue swirling about the rosy bud, driving her mad with desire. He paused for a moment to remove his own smallclothes, a smirk tugging at his lips when she flushed at the sight of him. She seemed to have a good memory.

He sat back on his heels, his hands grasping her hips and pulling her close. She could feel the tip of his member pressing lightly against her entrance. She wiggled her hips in a futile attempt to bring it deeper. He hesitated for a moment, his fingers still tracing faint patterns on her hips. His eyes were distant, distracted. She stilled, looking up at him with a perplexed look in her eyes.

"Last chance to stop," he murmured, but he could not stop his fingers from digging into the firm flesh of her hips, pulling her hot core ever nearer. He was trembling from the intensity of the moment, trying to stop himself, to save her from this fate. Yet his eyes continued to devour her as she lay before him, face flushed, lips parted, silently begging him to continue.

"Please, Fenris," came her voice, soft and pleading and dare he think it, _desperate_. The sounds scintillated him, drove all hesitation from his mind. Here was this wonderful, magnificent, infuriating creature who had somehow, against all odds, gotten tangled up in his life, and beguiled her way into his heart in the process. His heart which he had thought, until this point, was damaged beyond repair, the pieces small enough to pass through the eye of a needle. And he would subject this glorious woman to that? He would selfishly keep her from a man that could give her everything she ever wanted, a happier life?

She bit her lower lip and pleaded again, moving her hands to stroke his stomach feverishly, urgently. "Fenris? I need you. _Please_," and in that moment, Fenris knew that the answer was and always would be _Yes. _Yes, he would keep her for himself and no one else, even if it meant keeping her from someone who was better suited for her. The guilt tasted like ashes on his tongue, but he did not care. She was his.

He slid into her to the hilt, eliciting a moan from the both of them. It was a moment before he trusted himself to move. The silky heat surrounding him was maddening, intoxicating, and almost frightening. He remembered their previous night together with startling clarity, all of it, and the aftermath, coming to him a rush. He groaned, and with slow, determined movements, he began a rhythm.

Maker, the noises she was making. He watched, entranced, as her own hips matched his languid movements, her whimpers and cries of pleasure music to his ears. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open in such an inviting way.

Without missing a beat, Fenris' powerful arms coiled around her waist, drawing her up into his lap, her thighs straddling his hips. Eyes closed, he pressed his face to her bosom, inhaling the soft, sweet fragrance of her, their pace never slacking. She reached up to her hair and pulled the leather tie from it, allowing her dark tresses to fall about her face freely. Her hands threaded through his own hair, pulling his head back and crushing her mouth against his.

His arms' hold on her waist tightened as his pace increased. She cried out against his mouth, her forehead pressed against his cheek. He growled against her throat, broken words in Tevinter, things he couldn't bring himself to say to her directly. The pace increased, and Fenris felt he might explode any moment. But he had to hold on. He couldn't let himself go that quickly.

She arched her back, another cry falling from those ruby lips, pressing herself ever deeper. Her arms slipped around Fenris' neck, clinging to him like a drowning man clings to a bit of flotsam. She was close now, he could feel it. She was saying something, but he couldn't make it out.

"You'll have to speak up," he grunted up at her, and with a particularly forceful thrust, her reply came as a shocked gasp.

"_Fenris_!"

She was saying his name, he realized with a thrill, and his pace increased to its maximum. He grunted quietly while she mewled and moaned above him. She tossed her head back, the very picture of pleasure. He burrowed his face into her bosom, planting his warm, wondrous mouth seemingly everywhere at once.

"Mine," he rumbled huskily between kisses, taking a moment to nibble here and there at her soft flesh. "_Mine_."

She cried out his name once more, clutching him as her sheathe shuddered around him. And he could hang on no longer. He exploded within her, both of them riding out the waves of pleasure. They took a moment to recover, breathing heavily. She was slumped against him, arms around his neck. He shifted after a few moments, cradling her slightly limp body and settling it on the mattress. He lay down beside her, and without hesitation, she curled around him, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin, her fingers resting softly on his chest. One of her silken legs intertwined with his. A contented sigh escaped her.

That nagging feeling of uncertainty was plaguing him again, whispering doubts into his ear. After all, he hadn't been around this long the last time. His hand rested hesitantly on her hip, and then he second-guessed himself, moving it instead to her arm.

She shifted, looking up at him with sleepy eyes. "Fenris?" came her quiet sigh, and he gave her arm a light squeeze in silent reply. He turned his head to look at her, planting an achingly sweet kiss on her forehead.

"Are you staying?"

His heart turned to ice at the note of sadness in her tone, and he shifted to gather her more firmly in his arms. It was, after all, his fault that she had doubts. Their previous rendezvous was evidently fresh in her memory, and the wound still stung.

"Nothing is going to keep me from you."

The party downstairs had settled considerably. Merrill had fallen asleep, her arms pillowing her head on the table, her mug lying forgotten beside her on the bench. Isabela was helping the sleeping elf to her feet, electing to escort her back to the alienage. Anders had long since left for his Darktown, claiming that there were sick that needed tending. Sebastian had retreated to the Chantry, to pray for a cure for hangovers. Only Varric remained, with the serving girl.

Nionwen found herself seated in the dwarf's lap, their shared mug of ale clutched in her hand. His booted feet were propped up comfortably on the table, and the fire's embers hissed in the grate. He had long ago convinced the bartender to allow her the night off; he rather enjoyed her company. She giggled quietly, taking a swig of the ale and passing the mug onto him.

"Pardon me for saying so, Messere Varric, but you are full of shit. You expect me to believe that you and Serah Hawke took down a cave full of abominations, and then later fended off a pirate invasion?" She gave him a hard prod in the hairy chest, and he rubbed the spot, pulling a hurt expression, complete with puppy dog eyes. It was only slightly ruined by his impish smirk.

"Madam, you wound me," he said with a chuckle, taking a swig and handing her back the mug. "I only speak the truth, at all times," he added with a wink, and she gave him an exasperated look.

She hesitated, watching him shrewdly as she finished their ale and set the mug down. She settled against him with a sigh. "Go on, you old liar, tell me another."

Varric grinned. "Well, if you insist…" And so he began.


End file.
